


Cat's in the cradle

by doctorziegler



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, Dark, Dissociation, First Time, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV First Person, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 11:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11312721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorziegler/pseuds/doctorziegler
Summary: He'd say, I'm gonna be like you, DadYou know I'm gonna be like you— from 'Cat's In The Cradle', by Harry Chapin.(Avengers Kink Memefill for the prompt:Steve/Tony, That awkward moment when...—... Steve and Tony, after all the posturing and flirting and nonsense, finally get down to the good stuff, only for Steve to accidentally, in the throes of passion, call out "Howard" instead of "Tony".)





	Cat's in the cradle

**Author's Note:**

> this is. not. a nice or happy little fic. warning for fucked up introspection and pretty self-loathing tony ahahhasaghfgbs,,
> 
> [ [twitter](https://twitter.com/heatvisions) / [nsfw twitter](https://twitter.com/DOOOMZO) ]

He feels so hot between my legs that I almost can’t stand it.

He’s _here_ , he’s hard as a rock; he's digging into my ass and that’s _exactly_ where I want him (well, not _exactly_ , but I’m _so_ not in a mood to argue semantics), but he’s being a pretty little cock-tease— shit, who even thought goody-two-shoes _Captain_ _America_ could _be_ a cock-tease?

Who in their right mind came up with such a crazy idea? Was that part of the Super-Soldier project process, to, who knows, maybe  _seduce_ the Axis powers into submission, or— was that just Steve Rogers himself, the golden boy of the century who, for some reason, knows exactly how to drive a man like me wild?

It doesn’t really matter, though, because soon enough he’s pushing into me, and I’m moaning at the top of my lungs, all my witty retorts and one-liners trapped under my own tongue. I can’t _speak_ , I'm choking on a cock buried in my ass and I can’t do a damned thing but buck helplessly against him, my legs curling around his waist.  
  
It’s _perfect_.

No, it’s better than perfect; I never imagined a first time with someone could feel so natural, so damn _good_.

Hell, he’s big, too; bigger than any guy I’ve ever taken before, but I told him from the first moment I pulled his cock free during an Avengers press conference and gave him a sneaky under-table handjob without anyone noticing that I wasn’t afraid of a big dick— _and_ that I was more than equipped to handle anything he could throw at me. He fills my hand and he likes to gag me 'til tears sting my eyes and, fuck it all,  _I_ like it just as much as he does.

So I’m a cock-slut— what can I say?

And, lucky for me, Captain Steve Rogers just so happens to love it.  
  
So, here we are, and he’s been _so_ good to me, the perfect gentleman, so careful and so _considerate_ ; I wrap my arms around his neck, feel him lift me up into his lap so that he’s half-fucking me, half-making me fuck myself on his cock. Within a few minutes, though, he’s up behind me and I’m face-first in the pillow, Captain America, Captain- _fucking_ -America, the good, all-American soldier pounding my ass so hard I swear I’m gonna black out before I even come.

“Oh, fuck,” I hear myself say, pressing my knees harder into the mattress because, dammit, he’s forcing me into the damn thing and it’s just making me spread my legs farther, to allow him deeper and God, _fuck_ , it’s so fucking hot and thick and I’ve never felt _anything_ like it before in my life. “ _Harder_ , Steve, fuck me harder, fucking _fuck_ , shit, you’re a fucking pro at this, don’t stop, don’t you _dare_ stop—”

He tenses, braces an arm under me and holds my chest, breathes into my ear and pants, absolutely lost in pleasure: “ _Howard_.”  
  
And— hey, _what_? That's— not my name.

Not _my_ name—

All of a sudden, I can’t breathe.

It’s like being punched.

It’s like being _shot_. Like the sound of cannons and gunfire and pain and I’m in a cave except it isn’t in Afghanistan, it’s _here_ , in my own bedroom and I’m trapped, but no one can rescue me and I can feel my heart threatening to give out; there’s shrapnel in my chest— did you know that, Steve? It wants me _dead_ , every second of every day, and I can feel it snaking its way inside as I hear a sound— I don’t know where it's coming from, exactly, but it sounds almost like a sob. It sounds pathetic, in all seriousness. Who the hell _was_ that?

Wasn’t me.

 _Couldn’t_ have been me.

But, I’m curled up in the corner of the bathroom all of a sudden, regardless, and I think to myself that there are _terrorists_ outside the door, trying desperately to get in, but the door seems to be unbreakable.

'Unbreakable'.

That’s a good thing. A good word. I wish _I_ was unbreakable. (' _The Invincible Iron Man'—_ yeah fucking right _—_ )  
  
What was I doing, before? I can’t remember. I just hurt. A _lot_.

It’s the shrapnel, right? And—am I in _Afghanistan_? It’s cooler than I remember it, and it’s raining— no, wait. That’s a shower head. When did I turn that on? Oh, yeah— bathroom. Right. That _probably_ makes sense, if only my brain were working.

There’s a voice outside the door, apologizing, or, something like it, I don’t know for sure; it sounds like a foreign language so I block it out, put my head under the spray and ignore it, and _God_ , my chest hurts. Why does it hurt so much? My arc reactor is working but my chest hurts. My _heart_ hurts. It aches.

I wish I could remember what I was doing. I sort of remember feeling good, feeling full and satisfied and then it was like a bomb went off and it was so familiar and horrible and—  
  
_“Howard.”_

Oh, right.

He called me 'Howard'.  
  
I sob again, against my own will, my arms bracing against the tile wall and I begin to cry, alone and wounded, just like I did when I was a kid. Like when I’d slipped and gashed my knee open on pavement and came inside to have my dad kiss it better and instead, he'd yelled at me for interrupting his work yanked my arm and dragged me to my mom, then proceeded to yell at _her_ for letting me barge into his office unannounced.  
  
I slide down the wall, the spray turned off now and I can feel myself, my psyche coming apart at the seams, because _he called me Howard_ and he— _never_ cared about _me_ — he never did, did he?

It was just about Howard, it _always_ was. Because I look like him, talk like him, I’m smart and witty and we look so similar and I _hate_ him, I hate them both; I wish he’d never been thawed from that block of ice and that I’d never met him at all, that I could go back to not knowing what it was like to _hurt_ like this.

I can’t make an arc reactor to keep this from reaching my heart and I’m lost and I want to _die;_ he’s still at the door, though, asking to be let in.

I _scream_ at him, something unintelligible because I want him to leave, I roar that I never want to see him again, and then I’m opening the door and my fist collides with his jaw and that hurts me more than him, of course, and that’s such a perfect description of how everything feels right now that I begin to laugh, hysterical and pathetic and his arms are around my shoulders before I realize what's happening and he’s **—** he's shushing me like he cares and _I hate him_ , I hate him for being such a good liar, and I bury my face in his warm chest and I feel safe and I hate him _so_ _much_ in that moment that I can’t even begin to describe it.  
  
Steve apologizes again, but this time, I don’t even hear it.

I shudder against his perfect body and I’m shocked at myself for responding to his closeness— we’re both still naked, of course, and I hate _myself_ most of all for the pathetic way my heart flutters when he scoops me into his arms and carries me back to the bed, laying me down and pressing kisses across my collarbone. He looks so sorry, so hurt that _I_ almost start apologizing for— for what? For _resembling_ my own father?  
  
I’m calming down, slowly but surely, the sobs no longer coming quite so hard; he’s stroking my spine and it feels so good that I swear I’ll catch fire if he doesn’t stop, and a part of me wants to tell him we should forget this happened because I— how can _I_ hate _him_?

He’s a better man than I’ll ever be; I don’t deserve him.  
  
After all, this was just an accident. Just a one-time fuck-up.   
  
Right?  
  
[END]


End file.
